


Legacy

by molo (esteefee)



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: April Showers Challenge, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Series, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-30
Updated: 2008-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-17 09:34:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/molo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all about the jacket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Legacy

**Author's Note:**

> Spawned from a conversation with CC, who says she forgives me for stealing a plot point from one of my favorite  
> stories, [Free to a Good Home](http://ccwriter.org/stories/freetogoodhome.php).
> 
> This is for Marcy, who does so damned much for us all.

_Hutch's letter jacket, still damp and smelling like wet sheep from their dip in the swimming pool, hung drying on the back of the kitchen chair, the wool rough under Starsky's palm._

 _Hutch dodged the kiss and nudged him away, which wasn't right, damn it. Jesus, they'd almost bought it twice today, didn't he get it?_

 _"We can't," Hutch whispered. "You **know** why."_

 _When he left, he took the jacket with him, slung under one arm.  
_

ooOoo

The first time Starsky saw it was in the reception hall at the Academy. The desk clerk stopped Hutchinson and dumped two boxes on him, saying they'd been delivered that afternoon.

Starsky took a peek and saw they'd been sent to Hutchinson without a return address, which was weird, and enough of a mystery for him to stick around while Hutchinson opened them, even though they'd just gotten out of the gym and Starsky smelled like a goat—one that was about two days dead.

Hutchinson sat down and pulled out a pocketknife to slit open one of the boxes. The top layer was a letter jacket—black and white. Hutchinson pulled it out of the box with the strangest expression, and then the look was gone. Poof. It was magic the way he did that, managed to look like nothing special was going on even when there was.

Starsky figured it would come in pretty handy if Hutchinson ever tried to go undercover.

"What is that?" Starsky asked, even though it was pretty obviously a letter jacket. No letters on it, though.

"It belonged to my brother," Hutchinson said.

Starsky frowned. "I thought you told me you didn't have any brothers or sisters."

There was that weird look again, and then Hutchinson flicked him a glance and said, "I don't."

So, _that_ was strange.

That night, Hutchinson drank about four beers too many, and Starsky had to heft him on one hip out the door and into the car. He didn't know where Hutchinson lived, so Starsky took him home to his dinky little apartment on Melrose.

Hutchinson had been pretty close-mouthed at the bar, but now, when it was past midnight and he was lying drunk on Starsky's couch, he started mumbling stuff. Something about where did he leave the boxes?

"We took 'em to the locker room before going out. Don't you remember?"

"Oh, yeah. Right."

Starsky dropped a blanket on him and started to turn off the light.

"That's all the stuff I had left back there."

Sighing, Starsky shoved one of Hutchinson's mile-long legs out of the way and sat down on the couch. "What was?"

"The boxes. From m'parents. They're done with me, too, I guess. Maybe my mom'll come around—"

Great. Sounded like family crap. "Hutchinson, I don't—"

"Call me 'Hutch'." The words were surprisingly clear for a drunk guy.

"Okay, _Hutch._ I don't get what you mean."

"Nothing. Just...that was the last of it. And putting Stephen's jacket on top like that—" Hutchinson blew out his breath, stirring the hair on his forehead. The powerful smell of cheap beer swam between them.

"Ugh. Man, Hutchinson, you really went overboard tonight."

" _Hutch_." Hutchinson's tone was insistent.

"Yeah, yeah, okay."

Hutch nodded as if he'd won some point. "Thanks for the place to crash."

"No problem. Are you...all right?" Starsky coughed. "I mean, you think you're gonna lose it? Throw up or something?"

"Nah. I'm good." Hutch flashed a grin, and Starsky had to smile back, even though he wasn't really sure why. The guy had cost him at least a couple of hours sleep, and they were supposed to have an early morning doing stupid calisthenics.

"Thanks again. Thanks, Starsk," Hutch said, too drunk to even finish his name. And then he kind of sagged sideways, and Starsky let him get to work on his hangover.

ooOoo

  
The next morning, after giving the bleary-eyed Hutchinson a cup of coffee and a ride in, they had calisthenics and then split up for classes. After lunch was physical training with the whole class. When the sergeant told them all to pair up and head over to the obstacle course, Starsky didn't even have to look. He just started walking, and there was Hutchinson striding next to him.

The big guy seemed to be doing okay, considering his pathetic state the previous night. He kept up with Starsky, anyway, and that was no small thing, because Starsky was _fast_. Always had been, always loved it—running, dodging, jumping. They danced through the tires and swung over the wall in perfect sync, side by side, and had left everyone else in the dust by the time they hit the target range.

And then it was _bam! Bam! Bam!_ and Starsky wasn't sure which he loved more, the running or the firing, but, man, he was on a roll today, no hesitation when the targets were bad guys. And Hutchinson—Hutch—was a mean shot with that big cannon of his. It just tore through every target like a bomb blast.

Their final score was so head-and-shoulders above the rest of the pack that even the sergeant had a surprised expression on his sour old puss.

"Come on, let's get a shower, then I'm buying you supper," Hutch said, his mouth open in a grin, his chewing gum peeking out of the corner.

"You better believe it, buddy," Starsky said, and clapped Hutch on the back.

The guy in the equipment cage threw them a couple of towels and waved his hand at the boxes, which were still sitting on the shelf next to the medicine balls. Hutch's face winced and he nodded.

"Thanks, Randy. I'll take 'em off your hands once I get out." He started stripping as he walked toward his locker.

Starsky's was in the other row, but he caught up with Hutch in the shower. Hutch was already soaping down, shaking his head under the stream, the suds glistening down his pale skin. Starsky looked away and left one showerhead between them before turning on the water.

"Hey, can I borrow your soap? I forgot mine," Starsky said.

Hutch wiped the water from his face and gave him a look.

"C'mon, Hutch. You owe me."

"Yeah, I suppose I do," Hutch said, and tossed him the soap, which slipped right through Starsky's fingers. As he picked it up, he heard Hutch chuckle.

"Your bright idea to get me to drop the soap?" Starsky said, bending an evil grin at Hutch, who looked away suddenly. And either he had his water on very hot, or that was a blush running all the way down his neck, his chest, his stomach—

Some muted talking and clanking came from the locker room, and Starsky tore his eyes away, heat rising on his own skin. He knew better than this. Two years in the Army and you'd think he'd have learned how to take a freaking shower with another guy.

Even a really, really good-looking guy. Starsky wondered if that was how they built them in Minnesota, or was Hutch a special case? Miles of smooth skin and legs and muscle, and no damned hair at all. Like a statue, almost.

And, no, he wasn't thinking about it, because that was Sorenson and Meekers spouting some crap or other out in the locker room.

The room suddenly grew quieter and Starsky realized Hutch had finished his shower. Starsky hurried to rinse, just running some water through his short hair to get the sweat out before shutting off his faucet. He heard the slap of Hutch's wet footsteps, and Starsky slung a towel on and followed him. Just in time, too, because Meeker nudged him in the doorway, trying to force his way in. Starsky gave him a shoulder—never paid to give the shitheads an inch—pushing him back as he passed.

Meekers grumbled, but nothing understandable, so Starsky let it go.

The locker room had filled up with the rest of the class, and over the jumble of noise and bodies Starsky didn't catch up with Hutch until he found him at the equipment cage.

Hutch said, "Hey," but didn't look at him straight on, and that was when Starsky knew for sure that Hutch had caught him looking. He must have. Starsky hadn't exactly managed to hide it.

But Hutch said, "Help me get these home?" And he was asking, really asking—Starsky could hear he meant it.

So, he said, "Yeah, sure thing," and helped Hutch carry the boxes to his car.

Hutch's apartment building was even worse off than Starsky's—a total dive. Starsky knew Hutch had just split up with his wife just before entering the Academy, so he figured Hutch must be paying heaping big alimony to explain having to live in such a rat trap.

But the apartment itself wasn't so bad. Hutch had a lot of plants, which made the place look all green and fresh, and he had a couple of pieces of good furniture, including a couch that Starsky collapsed on after dumping his box on the coffee table. He was aching in all sorts of places from their workout.

"Pizza, I'm thinking," Starsky said.

Hutch didn't seem to hear him. He wandered over to the box Starsky had put down, and he reached into it and pulled out the letter jacket.

And just held it.

"What's the story there?" Starsky asked.

Hutch looked at him.

"I know there's gotta be a story. You said it was your brother's..."

"I did?" Hutch's voice sounded foggy, and sure enough he cleared his throat. "Well, you know the story, then." Still holding the jacket, Hutch sat down on the couch. "I had a brother. I don't have one anymore."

Starsky scratched his chest. "Well, shit. What happened?"

Hutch's eyes narrowed, and they traveled down to Starsky's chest, then all the way down to his crotch and back up again, and the look in them was like a slap. Like a hot punch in the gut. When Hutch finally locked eyes with him again, Starsky knew.

"He wasn't as good at hiding it," Hutch said softly. But he didn't need to. Starsky already understood.

Hutch fingered the jacket, then moved suddenly, opening it and slipping it on, his bright hair golden against the black.

He looked different in it. Younger, like a high school kid; but older, too, because his face was—he looked mad, and sad, and like he'd seen things no kid should have to see.

"Looks good on you," was all Starsky said.

ooOoo

  
Hutch wore the jacket for a lot of years—on the weekends when they were rookies, and then after they partnered up and made detective and could wear plainclothes again. Then it disappeared for a while—Starsky sort of wondered sometimes what had happened to it, but not enough to really think about it. If he'd had to guess, he'd figure it was wearing out and Hutch didn't want it to fall off his back.

But every so often it would pop up. Once, after Starsky's uncle Joey got shot down, Hutch showed up with the jacket on. It was strange to see him in it, but kind of reassuring. Another time Hutch started wearing it again just a couple of weeks after his ex-wife was murdered.

And if that wasn't some kind of message, Starsky was Pope John Paul.

Hutch had been framed for the murder, and the two of them went on the lam. They slept in the same bed together hiding out at Huggy's. But nothing happened—nothing could. And, anyway, nothing needed to happen, because they were already in it so deep together, Starsky could barely breathe thinking about it—about Hutch going down for murder. About Hutch in the fucking slammer.

The next time he saw Hutch in the jacket was soon after their friend Rigger was killed right out from under them and he and Hutch had tossed their badges away like rusty cans. They were tight again, the two of them riding without backup. Maybe that was why the jacket turned up.

Things got worse before they got better, though. Much worse.

Then, the day Starsky was released from the hospital, Hutch showed up—red-faced because he was late, but smiling at him like the moon, the sun, and maybe the entire Milky Way were shining out of Starsky's ass.

"Sorry, Starsk. I had to make a stop on the way from getting your stuff." Hutch reached into a duffle bag and laid out a pair of Starsky's jeans, his shoes, and his favorite red shirt, the softest shirt he owned.

"That's cool." Starsky had to clear the gunk out of his throat.

"Let me help you get dressed and outta here, partner."

Starsky was embarrassed, but he sure needed the help. Three weeks in the hospital and he had nothing—no muscles left at all, and everything was tight and hurt like hell.

Hutch helped him into his clothes and said, "It's raining out, so I thought—you need to keep warm." There must've been gunk in Hutch's throat, too, because he sounded rough and anxious.

He reached back into the bag and pulled out his letter jacket. And when he looked up, Starsky thought maybe the sun and moon, _et cetera,_ had decided to shine right out of Hutch's eyes instead.

"That's yours, Hutch—I can't take your—"

"You can." Hutch held it open, his face openly begging. "I want you—I want you to."

Starsky froze for a second. But Hutch's eyes didn't lie. They weren't hiding a thing. So Starsky carefully slid his arms in, and it wrapped around him, big and warm. Too big—he was practically swimming in it, but he didn't care. He was surrounded by that wooly smell—he remembered it from every time it rained and Hutch would sit next to him in the Torino smelling like wet wool and leather. And he remembered it from the time they dove into the swimming pool, and afterward.

His eyes smarted and he bent his head. "Thanks, babe."

Hutch knelt and looked right up into his eyes. "It's yours for as long as you want it," he said shakily. "As long as you want it."

Starsky had to dry swallow before saying, "I want it."

"Good." Hutch smiled wide. "That's really good."

ooOoo

  
Starsky wore the jacket home, and later on his way to physical therapy and his doctor's appointments—all the time, really. He was wearing it the first time Hutch kissed him. He wanted to wear it the first time they fucked, but Hutch said that was a little too weird.

Over the years, the leather cracked, and the color faded to a murky green, and the wristbands got stretched and the pockets gave out.

Still and all, though, it held up pretty damned well.

  
_Finis._   


 

January 30, 2008  
San Francisco, CA  



End file.
